“Bunch of fackin’ faggots! Look at ‘em, fackin’ benders the fackin’ lot of ‘em!”

The league I play football in dictates that from time to time we spend our Saturday afternoons venturing into the less salubrious areas of London to play our away fixtures. This particular fixture had what would be described by a mockney gangster as ‘previous’.

The first thing I noticed as we made our way to the pitch were the three unmuzzled pit bull terriers. Each one was being kept on a rather feeble looking leash by three of the home teams supporters. The general demeanor of the dogs suggested that they had not been fed for a week and had been tormented by men in a Claret and Blue strip waving delicious steaks in their general direction.

As the warm-up continued, so to did the verbal abuse. I found it amusing that the main abuse was coming from a small white bloke with both hands down his pants.

He continued to vociferously question the sexual orientation of our entire team. I managed to resist the temptation to quote statistics at him and point out that in all likelihood at least one of his own team was gay, or that he did indeed appear to be protesting too much.

Instead, as our team approached his touchline, the abuse continued.

“You all look like a bunch fackin’ faggots, this is gonna be easy. Poofs!”

“Umm.” I began as we got within a few feet of him, “Correct me if I’m wrong, but aren’t you the one watching twenty two men run around in shorts whilst simultaneously playing with your cock? Not the sort of behaviour you’d expect from a straight guy, is it?”

“Fack off!” he wittily retorted.

The dogs looked like they too had taken offense, and I draw the line at fighting chavs, not the blood thirsty killer dogs that belong to chavs. So, I decided to keep my opinions to myself from that point onwards.

We drew 3-3 and left very, very quickly after the final whistle.

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